


Snips and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails

by mthrfkrgdhrwego (universalchampbalor)



Series: Prompt Fills [2]
Category: Combat Zone Wrestling, Professional Wrestling
Genre: Dogs, Gen, Prompt Fill, Smoking, s o f t s h i t, tbh this is self indulgent from cam's prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 06:09:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14710566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/universalchampbalor/pseuds/mthrfkrgdhrwego
Summary: Moxxicity requested: Moxley being Soft (tm)





	Snips and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails

An oversized threadbare hoodie comes to cover scabbed, cut skin and a torn shirt stained with god knows what. The hem hangs down over frayed pants, towards exposed, scraped knees. A cigarette hangs limply between thin lips, currently unlit as it rests against a split lip. 

“You gonna be ok? Sure you don’t gotta concussion?” Sami asks, leaning against the doorframe. His eyes are lidded as he fiddles with his lighter, gnawing on his thumb.

Mox waves a dismissive hand. “‘M fine, dude. Just wanna take a walk to try an’ calm down. Little keyed up after tonight’s fight.” He mumbles, bending to tug on his boots. The movement causes pain to race up his spine, and he’s reminded of the two panes of glass he went through, not to mention the barricade he got dropped on.

He has a habit of blocking out fights, of slipping into a separate headspace, of forgetting everything that happens to him between the ropes. It comes back to him slowly, in bits and pieces afterward, only when he moves.

He tries to ignore the shaking of his hands as he laces his boots. Eventually, he gives up, shoving his laces in his boots instead. He tosses his keys and wallet in his pockets and snatches his lighter before leaving the shitty apartment he calls home.

It’s October, and the Cincinnati air is sharper than he thought it’d be, sharper than the glass, the barbed wire, the tines of a fork digging into his forehead. It cuts through his hoodie, his shirt, his shitty jeans that are already falling apart (have been for years, if he’s honest). His hair, which is starting to get long again, is hanging in his eyes, held in place by his hood pulled tight over his head.

He trudges along, boots scuffing on the leaf-littered sidewalk. His cheeks are turning red, as is his nose, and his fingers are going a little numb in his pockets. His feet feel a little weird in his shoes, and he’s sure the cold’s getting to his toes too. He needs to find a way to warm up.

He fumbled with his wallet, looking at his cash with half-dead fingers. He counts a good $25 left over from the cash he set aside for rent and utilities. The bills feel soft and worn between his fingers, and his heart thuds in his chest.

He knows there’s a coffee shop a few blocks away from the apartment. It’s not the best place for coffee or the best place in town, but he can hold his own and he desperately needs something hot enough to burn the taste buds off his tongue.

He adjusts his course and walks quickly, head tucked down as he walks. The cold isn’t just sharp, it’s hard, wind pushing furiously enough to knock him wavering every once and a while. He pushes past it and finally finds himself at the doors to the Starbucks after what feels like an eternity.

He nudges the door open and sighs at the warmth of the air inside. There’s a bored looking kid sitting behind the counter with her feet knocked up on the counter as she plays on her phone. Mox stubs out his cigarette on his jeans as he enters, wary of the smoke alarms.

He walks up, his unlit cigarette hanging between his lips. He rolls it as he waits for the kid to look up. He ends up resorting to knocking his knuckle against the counter sharply,  _ loudly _ , when the kid ignores him for a solid ten minutes.

The kid grumbles something and Mox kindly ignores it. His knuckles are still aching and he doesn’t want to start another fight. “C’n I get a hot chocolate? Almond milk, please. With whipped cream.” Mox says, leaning his hip against the counter. The kid asks what size (the largest they can give) and the name (he bites out Jon around his cigarette) and tells him the total. Mox hands her a $5 bill and adds a little of his change into the tip jar.

The kid sets about making Mox’s drink, and he keeps a close eye on her to make sure she adds the right milk (she does). While he waits, he pulls the beat-up MP3 player from his back pocket and plugs in his fraying headphones. He shuffles his music and settles on the old Spike in Vain song that comes on. He bops his head from side to side as God on Drugs starts blaring through his shitty headphones, vocals and guitar riffs slightly tinny. She hands him the drink and he nods at her before leaving. 

The hot cocoa feels almost scalding in his hands and as he sips it much too early, it burns his tongue smooth and warms his throat, his chest, his stomach. He sips it quickly, small little mouthfuls that still leave his teeth throbbing. He walks aimlessly for a while, crunching leaves underfoot as he tries to savor his drink.

Eventually, he finds himself at a dog park. Part of his heart melts as he sees the dogs jumping and playing. He realizes he’s walking over without his mind’s consent, and he sits on a slightly too cold metal bench as he watches.

He sits there for around an hour, legs curled up to his chest to try and conserve body heat. He’s finished his drink around ten minutes ago, but he doesn’t mind because he’s too focused on watching a great Pyrenees play with a mini schnauzer. 

He’s knocked out of his reverie by a large dog smalling into his side and knocking him off the bench.

He lands ass-first on the damp, cold ground and manages to bite back a curse. He looks up to find a rottweiler close to half his size trying to run at him, a thin boy managing to hold him back. The man can’t be too much older than Mox, and he’s several long inches shorter. Short brown hair falls into blue eyes as he struggles to hold back the large dog.

Mox rolls up to a crouch and holds out a hand. The dog seems to grin at him and leans forwards, dragging her owner with her. The dog nudges her cold nose against Mox’s palm and carefully licks his fingers. He laughs softly and reaches higher and carefully scratches behind her ears.

“What’s her name?” He finds himself asking, bringing his other hand up to pet her. She’s come to sit now, her tail thumping against the ground happily. She’s slobbering a little, but he’s managed to avoid getting it on him.

The man sits on the bench and nudges her stomach with his foot. She sits easily and grins up at Mox, her tail still flying from side to side. “Her name’s Cocoa.” The man says softly, his voice smothered in an Irish accent. The name fits; the dog is a deep chocolate color, except for a few blonde highlights around her paws, snout, and underside. 

Mox moves closer and sits, not caring about the fact that his ass is pressed into the wet grass. Cocoa just smiles and scooches closer, dropping her head on Mox’s thigh. There’s definitely slobber smeared across the thigh of his pants but her head is heavy and warm and she’s looking at him with big, tired brown eyes as her tail wags with enough ferocity to shake her entire body.

He sits there for an hour petting Cocoa and rubbing her belly before he returns home covered in dog fur and happy (Sami may or may not be jealous of the amount of slobber covering him).

**Author's Note:**

> I'm tonyknees on Tumblr! Come bug me! Requests are open!


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